Tank’s Death

Sitting outside in the cool morning

Looking at the roof

That our Mexican friends

So excellently put on.

Thinking about my sorrowful trip

Beginning in a few minutes.

Thinking about beloved Tank

Thinking about beloved Turner,

And how sad it all is.

I gaze at the poplar

Whose leaves are beginning to turn

A brilliant yellow.

My eyes travel to the red maple,

Just beginning to glow red.

How beautiful they are

In the throes of death.

I realize anew that

That there is a season for dying

Just as there is for living.

Then the mockingbird,

Perched on the new roof,

Begins singing to me

A raucous song, seeming to say, 

“I salute the morning!

I salute life!

I salute death!

I salute God,

Who governs all.”

And then God speaks:

“Tank will cease to exist

As a dog,

But his spirit remains.

Tank is coming back to me.

Do not cry—

There is no pain.

He will chase squirrels 

On my Holy Mountain.

When he catches them,

They will all have tea

And fruit from trees

That never die.

Tank never dies either.

My form will change

And another beloved 

Will come into your life,

Perhaps animal

Perhaps human,

Another who will teach you 

More things, just as Tank taught you,

About love, about life, 

About yourself, about others.

I am in all, I AM all

The mockingbird knows these things,

The trees know these things,

The rocks know these things.

Now you must know them

And not despair.

Tank’s spirit

Will still be with you.

“I love you, Turner,”

Says Yahweh God.